


Home

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depressed John, First Kiss, Grief, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's return, beginning relationship, discussions of hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 19:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17814065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: Some days John couldn’t believe he’d stayed at Baker Street, but he needed familiarity, even if it would never quite felt like home again. Then Sherlock returns and John knows how to welcome him home





	Home

John sighed as he climbed the 17 steps and again unlocked the flat. He was tired and the weather wasn’t helping. The air felt heavy today. It was likely going to rain and that was making his shoulder ache. At least the limp wasn’t too bad today. Pathetic. Some days he swore he was turning into his old Gramps. Christ he felt old.

Some days he couldn’t believe he’d stayed at Baker Street, but he needed familiarity, even if it would never quite felt like home again. He took off his shoes and hung his jacket, shivering slightly. It had generally been a mild winter, but he should light a fire in a bit. Even that little effort sounded exhausting. Tea first.

On his way to the kitchen he caught sight of Sherlock silhouetted over by the window. No matter how many times it happened, it still made his breath catch. Stupid, misfiring brain. Grief had always done funny things to him.

“God, I thought I was done with the visions, or hallucinations or whatever you are. It’s been at least six months since the last one.” John said to the apparition. He’d given up trying to figure out why he spoke aloud to them; he just did. “So what are you here to tell me? What did I miss this time, hmm?” He paused a moment and when no answer was forthcoming, continued. “Quieter than he was, you know. Well, I guess there were whole days he didn’t talk. He warned me that. I won’t forget. Not ever. But if there’s something my mind needs to tell me with you, just get on with it, because I know you aren’t really here.” John said firmly and stalked away. He banged the kettle around a bit harder than strictly necessary as he filled it at the tap and switched it on. He set out the mug and threw a teabag in. His eyes were prickling and he squinched them shut, choking back a sob.

He didn’t hear anything, but a hand brushed his shoulder, making him jump. 

“What the hell?” In the moment before he turned and took in who stood behind him, he half expected Mrs. Hudson, who sometimes still brought him biscuits or scones, but she didn’t usually sneak up on him. 

He whirled around, thinking he’d have to apologise for shouting and instead stopped stock still, just staring. 

“John?” Sherlock whispered, low and soothing, as though trying not to startle him more than any of this already had.

When he found his voice again John took a step forward. “I felt that. God, Sherlock? It’s- you’re really here. But you’re- how?” John reached up, tentatively at first, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head, searching his face. He looked drawn and worn down, dark smudges beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t slept for days. Worry lines furrowed his brow and there was a slight downturn to the corners of his mouth, as though he was unsure of how he’d be received given time and circumstances. He bloody well shouldn’t be sure of his reception. What the hell had he done? John found he couldn’t let him just stand there, but words failed him. He pulled Sherlock closer, knotting one hand in his dark curls. God, they were even softer than they looked. Silken and so very very real. His other hand clasped the bony jut of the detective’s hip. He was clinging too tightly, he knew. Not that Sherlock seemed to mind. 

“Yes, I’m really here. I’m home.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John as though he’d found a lifeboat after days and days of treading water. 

John tilted his head up and Sherlock met his gaze. He had imagined so many times what he would say if Sherlock was here again, but he found himself dumbstruck by the reality of it. He was sure down to his bones that this wasn’t just a progression of the hallucinations. He knew some people could touch, taste, have any manner of sensory experience with their breakdowns, but this was different. Sherlock was neither caked with blood like after the fall, nor like he had been before. There was a scar by his left eye that he hadn’t left with and he was so thin. John was certain his imagination had never conjured up stubble and he wondered if it would rasp against his cheeks. _Jesus._

“You have questions.”

“A million, but they can wait.”

Neither seemed to move first, but there was no awkward hesitation, no second guessing, just their mouths crushing together, so hard it could scarcely have been called a kiss. 

John had always imagined if they ever got to this point that it would be gentle, like they might break each other and the fragile thing between them if they held too tight. But this was brutal, years worth of pent-up love and lust and things unsaid spilling out, as if the fingertip bruises no doubt forming on each other’s hips could somehow spell out all that they meant to one another, words they hadn’t been able to bring themselves to voice.

Some time ago, John had learned to ignore the ache in his chest. A constant hole Sherlock’s presence had once filled. He was aware of it again now as it eased, pain dissolving under the pressure of alive, real, here. _Home_.

They broke apart, breathless and flushed, John had to marvel at the wonder in Sherlock’s eyes that he knew was reflected in his own.

“Christ, John.” Sherlock breathed, more a blessing than a curse. 

John couldn’t help the blasphemous thought. _If either of them was a deity it would be Sherlock. After all, he’s the one who has returned from the dead._ He began to giggle helplessly, uncontrollably. 

Sherlock stiffened in his arms. “John?”

“Sorry.” John choked out between laughs. “Sorry, s’not you.” John met Sherlock’s gaze, taking in a complex mix of hurt and wariness. “Or us! I want this, it’s just… a lot. Shock, I think.” John backed up and sat heavily on the couch.

The furrow between Sherlock’s brows eased and he sighed in relief. “Oh! Heightened emotions, the unexpectedness of my return. You’re giddy. Endorphins, adrenaline, norepinephrine, dopamine-”

John looked up at him with a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Come here. I needed a minute, but I think I’d like to get back to welcoming you home.”

Sherlock obliged and was made quite welcome indeed. On the couch, and the floor, and eventually even his old bed. 

John smiled to himself, rather stunned at the turn of events and frankly his stamina. _Not quite as old as I thought._ He smiled to himself, holding Sherlock close in the tangled sheets. “I thought I’d missed my chance. I never had the courage to tell you. I love you. I think I’ve loved you since that very first night.”

Sherlock’s eyes shone bright with emotion in the dim light of the room. “I love you too. I tried to say it that day on the roof, but I couldn’t. Not knowing I had to jump. I wasn’t sure I’d ever make it back to you. Of the ninety most likely scenarios there were only nine in which you loved me back and in seven of those you were much more likely to punch me in the face than to kiss me when I returned. I’m glad you kissed me, John.”

“I don’t ever plan to stop kissing you. Come here, you. Tomorrow I want you tell me everything. Everything. Tonight I just need to hold you.”

“ _Just_ hold me?”

John chuckled. “Think you’ve worn me out for anything else already. I’m not twenty anymore.”

Sherlock kissed him and curled up against his side, resting his head on John’s shoulder and sighed contentedly. “Whatever we do it’ll be perfect. It feels unreal. To be home. To get to have this.” 

“Me either. And not just because you were dead. I didn’t think you felt… this.”

Sherlock turned, his head muffled against John’s skin. “I tried not to.” He pushed himself up on his elbow, actually meeting John’s gaze. “Then while I was...away, loving you was the only thing keeping me going. I’d never have managed it-”

John cut him off with a kiss, fierce and possessive and grateful. “Even though I never left, I never thought I’d be home again either. You’re home, Sherlock. You’re my home.”

Sherlock’s eyes shone overbright. He squeezed them shut, a single tear escaping. “You’re my home too, John. Always.”


End file.
